


The Night Over Mygeeto Lay

by jotunblood



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Darth Vader's Glowing Personality, M/M, Mission Fic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jotunblood/pseuds/jotunblood
Summary: Nearly ten years after the fall of the Republic, Palpatine’s grip on the galaxy remains absolute. His enforcer, Darth Vader, spearheads the effort of maintaining peace through terror, but some places and beings go down less easily than others.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Darth Vader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 55
Collections: hope is like the sun





	The Night Over Mygeeto Lay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DreamingMoonlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingMoonlight/gifts).



> Hey everyone! I’ve been working on this mentally for a while and it’s undergone several evolutions, but I’ve finally worked out something that I want to run with. Can’t wait to see what y’all think. This is going to be fairly short chapter-wise. I can’t imagine it taking more than five or six to play. As for word count length, though-- that’s anyone’s guess! 
> 
> These chapters will probably take a while to upload and post, as they’re going to be long and I’m working on several things right now. But they’re coming! And I hope y’all have fun as they do. Buckle up and enjoy the ride with me :)

Lord Vader stood, silent and watchful, on the bridge of his flagship as dozens of crew members milled about. They navigated around him in pursuit of their duties: running numbers, checking functions, and preparing the _Executor_ for its impending drop into real space. 

Through the forward viewport, blue and white fragments of hyperspace peeled, flying by like they always did. It was familiar. Comforting, even. He wasn’t needed on the bridge, and knew that. He couldn’t see hyperspace from his quarters, though, so he’d come anyway.

Staring out into it, he focused on his breathing. His transpirator made a loud, labored beat. It fizzled at the edge of its cycle, hissing like a faulty airlock. A node was damaged somewhere inside. He still needed to fix it.

There hadn't been time between the mission where his suit had taken damage and this new one to do much about it. He'd only had a day on Coruscant, and the apparatus was functional enough that it hadn't been his first concern. He'd started with the failing servos in his legs and the crushed, rended ruin of his left arm. After that he'd patched his mask, meaning to tinker with the transpirator after. His master had called then, however, and the summons couldn't wait.

"Three hours out from target coordinates," he heard someone say. 

Not to him. The noncombatant staff, outside of the captain, rarely addressed him. They spoke to each other and passed messages up. If he gave an order they didn't ignore him, but they also didn't seek him out. He made them uncomfortable. It was how he preferred things. It minimized chatter.

"Three hours and change," someone corrected, which was petty.

The first speaker seemed to agree. Reaching out through the Force, Vader felt their annoyance. It was an old, well worn feeling. The two apparently didn't get along.

"Three and change," the first person agreed anyway, likely trying to impress the captain.

It didn't work. The captain didn't care. Vader felt that, too. All he cared about was the number, which he relayed.

"Three hours out, My Lord."

He turned his head to peer down at the man. The captain was short, greasy, and prone to repeating. Vader often wondered why the other thought he couldn't hear.

"Good of you to make me aware."

The sarcasm didn't translate. It usually didn't through the vocoder. The piece made him sound like a machine. It confused those around him about the source of his power, and about him in general. Most of the crew didn't think he was organic. He could see it in their minds. They thought he was a droid or something lab grown. They didn't think of him as a man, which was also how he preferred things. It minimized-- unnecessary complications.

Missed sarcasm aside, the captain obviously picked up on something. That, or sharing the bridge for so long unsettled him. Whatever the case, it had the same desired effect. The simpering thing ducked his head and looked away.

Disturbed from his contemplation of hyperspace, Lord Vader activated the comm mic in his helmet. He hailed one of his troopers, who were all in the hangar, and informed them of the updated timetable. The man he reached confirmed, then asked for permission to begin preparing their shuttles for debarkation. He granted it, and the soldier thanked him crisply before cutting the comm. The conversation was quick and efficient. He appreciated it.

"Will your men be needing assistance?" the captain asked, making guesses at a conversation he'd only heard half of. "Some of the staff on that level could be redirected. If you wish, they could help load--"

"That won't be necessary, captain."

"Ah." The man bit his lip and wrung his hands behind his back. He hadn't broken parade rest in the entire time Lord Vader had stood there. "Well, if it's managed, and things are on the bridge as well, perhaps--"

He trailed off, reconsidering. Lord Vader didn't let him.

"Perhaps what?"

The man swallowed. "Perhaps you'd like to rest. You'll soon need all your strength."

That was a deflection. The captain didn’t think he needed rest. He just didn’t want to share the bridge any longer.

“My presence unnerves you,” Vader said, which made the other tense.

“No, My Lord.”

“Annoys you, then.”

“What? My Lord, _no_ , of course not.”

That wasn’t true. The captain was both unnerved and annoyed, though perhaps not in the way he assumed Vader meant. It was a fact, in any case, not that the fact mattered. He had no intention of being shooed on his own flagship.

“Then I see no reason to grant your request.”

The datapits on either side of the bridge went silent. The few hushed conversations the techs had been having trailed off. Discomfort coiled through their ranks as they badly pretended not to pay attention. Their hands clacked at the keys, responsive readouts blipping loudly in the sudden silence. Lord Vader’s breathing was amplified. The damaged rasp was even more noticeable now. 

It irked him. The moment this mission was over, he’d fix it.

* * *

Two days prior, the Emperor had summoned him for a meeting. Lord Vader took a turbolift to a peak of what used to be a temple, entered his master’s suite, and knelt before the darkly curving chair that cocooned him.

His master looked frail inside it. The coarse black of his robes yellowed him. Darth Sidious was a damaged and weary-looking old man. The ten years since his injury had seen no improvement to his body, nor did the Emperor appear interested in seeking it. 

He wore his disfigurement like a costume. It presented a desired image. Lord Vader’s master _looked_ frail, but he was not. He radiated a strength that was nearly overwhelming for those capable of sensing it. In its presence, Vader knew for certain there was nothing else.

“Rise,” The Emperor said, and he did. He got to his feet, but didn’t approach the chair. He hadn’t been asked. “You look well. I worried about the damage to your armor. It seemed quite extensive last afternoon.”

It had been. Darth Vader had come limping off his ship, dragging barely functional legs along. His left arm hung uselessly, shredded and leaking lubricant, and half of his face had been exposed. He'd attended the debriefing with his master, Governor Tarkin, and a handful of the Emperor's advisers immediately. His appearance hadn't concerned him. His master had seen him naked and hideously burned. Damaged armor was nothing compared to past vulnerabilities. 

“It was nothing,” he said.

“Nothing so terrible, you mean. The damage was notable enough.” The Emperor paused, allowing the ragged edge of Vader’s breathing to fill the room. “Your transpirator still needs work, my friend."

Darth Sidious often called his apprentice that. Vader was, ostensibly, considered one. It rang false, however. _Friend_ wasn't really how the Emperor thought of him, nor did Vader think he'd like it if it were. His relationship with the Emperor made the word seem pale. They each benefited and served one another in their way. To be anyone's friend wasn't something craved since his old life. Those sorts of entanglements were a distraction, and too often led to betrayal. 

His master knew this, and as a result never truly stopped appraising him. In return, Lord Vader watched the old man and waited.

“I didn’t want to delay you.”

“Considerate.” Sidious approximated a smile, buckling the deep wrinkles on his face. “Unfortunately, that means you’ve delayed yourself. You won't be returning to your workstation any time soon."

"Master?"

The Emperor didn't explain himself. Instead, he unfolded from his chair. Standing, he made his way toward the room's western veranda, beckoning for his apprentice to follow. Vader obeyed, falling into step heavily. He reached the door first and opened it for them both, allowing his master to pass under his arm. 

_Old_ , he thought, and _small_. If the other weren't so Forceful--

He buried the thought as he'd done a thousand times. Being leashed to Sidious hadn't lost merit yet. One day, perhaps, his master would fail him and be damned. It happened with all Sith. His master had said so himself. In the early days of their partnership, he'd spoken of the possibility like it was a foregone conclusion. As if, somewhere in the future, Lord Vader was already moving against him, closing a gauntleted fist around his throat.

The Emperor's cool laugh brought Vader out of his musings. "Your thoughts betray you, my friend. You imagine my death."

He was standing against the railing, back confidently to his apprentice. He leeched power and smoky resolve into the Force. Lord Vader took in the sight of him: a black robed smudge against the sky. His figure distubed the view of spires, hulking towers, and sleek personal vessels that dominated the sector. Imperial Plaza was a mess of light and activity even at night. It always had been. The citizens of Coruscant never slept. 

"No, master," he said, stepping to the other's side, announcing himself with slow, heavy steps. It wasn't necessary. Sidious knew his intentions even before he did. "I was only remembering a past conversation."

" _About_ my death."

"Or mine. An errant thought, in any case. It meant nothing."

Sidious didn't acknowledge that. He stared out over the city, taking in the chaos of evening. As the sky darkened, lights shuttered to life in every window of buildings uncountable stories high. The lights on sky taxis and speeders mimicked stars, zooming wildly through civilian airspace. A chilly wind whipped, snapping Vader's cape and whistling through railing grates. 

“There’s been a disturbance on Mygeeto,” the Emperor said after a time.

Lord Vader turned to him. “Of what sort?"

“Nothing that will surprise you. Another group of insurgents has begun harassing our mining facilities.”

 _Kyber mining_ , he didn’t say. It wasn’t necessary to. Vader knew what went on there, even if most of his master’s officers didn’t. The crystal was being mined for several weapons projects. When put under the proper pressure, it had desirable destructive properties. They'd had mines on Mygeeto for years, and over that time they'd been attacked frequently. He was, truthfully, getting tired of the Moff failing.

“I was under the impression that the threat was being managed.”

“It was, but the situation has changed. We’re no longer dealing with simple bands of disgruntled Lurmen. We’ve received intelligence that off-world sympathizers have joined the game.”

Sidious didn’t say who he thought those sympathizers might be, but given the recent activity in the Outer Rim, Vader could guess. “You suspect a rebel faction.”

They'd been causing trouble in other sectors for months.

The Emperor sniffed. “I suspect many things.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Take some of your men and end it. These constant delays are troublesome.” Sidious finally turned his head to look aside. His yellow eyes shined like a predator's under his hood. “Eliminate the threat, but be sure to take the leader alive. I want the viper’s head brought to me.”

Vader crossed his arms, already planning for liftoff. His ship and shuttles would need refueling, which would take half a day. His troopers and the _Executor_ 's staff would also have to be recalled, for which he'd allot another half to be generous. At the earliest, he could be en route the next afternoon and on Mygeeto within two. And, if the uprising were as spineless as those previous, breaking it up wouldn't take long.

“For interrogation?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Beings weren't brought back to Coruscant for anything less. “I could begin that for you, master.”

“No,” the Emperor insisted. “You aren’t to touch him.” He frowned, the expression deepening his scars. “I have many questions and it would be impractical to pass them through you. Better, I think, that I ask them myself.”

Vader felt a flash of anger at not being trusted with the task. His interrogations had never failed to drum up results. It banked as quickly as it flared, however, and he bowed his head. His master had spoken.

“It will be as you command.”

As always, the Emperor sensed his thoughts and laughed. He didn't allow Vader to downplay the initial response.

“Don't fret. Your talents are noted, and there will be other opportunities.” Sidious returned his attention to the city. “Go. Make your preparations."

* * *

Of the original 501st, Crest was the only one left. Sometimes he wondered if petitioning to stay in was a mistake. The rest of his brothers had accepted decommissioning and were probably out drinking somewhere, while he was still stuck on a ship prepping shuttles.

He wasn't too old for it yet, but he was getting close. The accelerated aging process the Kaminoans doctored up was starting to show. He used to keep his hair short, but when it began thinning, he took to shaving it. It made him look like Rex, wherever Rex was.

Not in the hangar of a Dreadnought, almost certainly, scrubbing carbon scouring off the ass end of a troop courier. Or, Crest thought with annoyance, having to load supply crates manually because the repulsor system was, once again, on the fritz.

"Didn't we log this?" he grunted to the trooper hefting one full of munitions with him.

The trooper grunted in return. "Two weeks ago, sir. It was flagged as resolved."

"By who?"

"Don't know. Some tech."

Crest rolled his eyes. "Karkin' useless."

"Yeah, well, how much can you expect?"

Not much, Crest had learned over the years. The ship they were on was top of the line, but techs were the same everywhere. One or two on a team could be counted on, but the rest weren't worth the effort it'd take to report them.

"Who was that weedy kid that repaired our comms last month?"

Now _that_ had been a show of craftsmanship. The other trooper thought for a moment.

"Said his name was Richter, I think."

"We're getting his personal line. If I have to deal with anyone else again, I swear I'll--"

"Lieutenant," someone called, cutting off the threat. Crest turned towards the voice and saw someone indicating their wrist comm. "Channel three. Lord Vader's asking for you."

Perfect, he thought. One more thing to squeeze in. He nodded to the messenger, then hurried through loading up the crate. When he and his mate had secured it, Crest hopped up to sit on the lid, powered on his unit, and flipped the channel. 

He would've known he found the right one even without the numerical readout. Lord Vader's sonorous breathing greeted him through it.

"Sir," he announced himself.

"Thirty minutes, Lieutenant." Vader's deep voice rumbled through the frequency, the mechanical buzz of his vocoder feeding back. "Are the shuttles prepared?"

"Very nearly. Some are finishing supply checks. When that's done, the men will report to their carriers for a headcount."

"Reassign one of yours. I'll be making the descent with your party."

Crest didn't have to do that. When he'd drawn up the descent plan earlier-- easier than the last few; they'd only brought a fraction of the legion-- he'd purposefully understaffed his own vessel. He'd expected Lord Vader to want to touch down with him. When he couldn't fly alone, which he preferred, the grim commander almost always flew with Crest. In the early days, it'd been intimidating. Now, the lieutenant wore the preference like a badge of honor.

It'd been a hard adjustment. At first glance, the 501st's new head wasn't much like the one Crest was used to. The late General Skywalker was in a class of his own. He didn't think anyone could compare. In practice, however, Crest found the two weren't all that different. Lord Vader was severe, but every bit as bold and decisive. He valued his men, unlike some, and didn't seem to think of Crest as any more disposable than the rest of them. He set strict guidelines and demanded unwavering loyalty, but didn't fail to match it with his own. He wasn't afraid to get his boots dirty, and never sent his shooters into a situation he wasn't prepared to cut them out of. 

He fought with them more often than not, and it raised morale to see his blade swing. He wasn't Skywalker, but no one could be. He was similar enough, though, for Crest to respect him. If Vader was the type to leave men behind, Crest probably would've died for him already.

"Will you be piloting, sir?"

"If you fail to meet expectations."

"Understood. Engines warming. We'll have her ready."

"See that you do."

Vader terminated the call without signing off. Closing his own end, Crest rubbed his head, scratching over stubble and wondering what they were getting themselves into. He'd been to Mygeeto before, but it'd been nearly a decade since his boots had beat the permafrost. He hadn't missed it. It was cold, dark, and miserable. If he was honest, he'd hoped to never have to go back.

That wasn't how service worked. He'd chosen to stay in, so if Lord Vader wanted to bust up an ice box, Crest guessed he'd do it. It wasn't meant to take long anyway. Their projected timeline capped just at two weeks. He'd survived worse for longer back in the war.

Hopping down from his perch, Lieutenant Crest reentered the hangar and surveyed the bustle of last minute prep work. The shuttles were all nearly loaded and several had groups forming up by their boarding ramps, waiting at attention.

Crest fished out his datapad, double-checking that he'd sent the rosters out to each shuttle's pilot. Seeing that he had, and that the documents had been acknowledged, he turned his attention to making his own vessel fit for Lord Vader.

* * *

He waited until they were idling outside the frigid planet's orbit to take the lift down to the hangar and join his men. The captain, in turn, waited for him to descend several floors before comming to ask a question he should’ve done on the bridge.

“My Lord,” he said, hesitant and displeased. He didn’t want to be talking to Vader. The feeling was mutual.

“Quickly,” he hissed, “or need I remind you we’re on a schedule?”

“No, sir. It won’t be a moment. I only wondered--” His comm crackled out, fizzling like the faulty node interrupting the pattern of Vader’s breathing. It blasted for several long seconds. When it ended, the captain sputtered. “Apologies, I’m-- not sure what, but something’s happened. Is happening, it would seem.”

In the background of the feed, Lord Vader could hear more static. It was unclear if it was coming from the line or datapits. Whatever the case, he wasn’t interested.

“A matter for your technical support. I trust that isn’t why you interrupted me.”

“No, sir." The comm kept fizzling, but it was only an annoyance. The captain’s voice was garbled, but audible enough. “I was wondering when the _Executor_ should rendezvous.”

He meant at the dropsite, just outside the target mining facility. Vader and his squad were touching down first and going in alone to clean up the mess those stationed there had allowed to spiral. He expected it to be an efficient maneuver. He'd run through motions like it a hundred times before. There were local factors to consider, but those were minimal. He didn't expect much delay and had no desire to stay long. He and his master had grander designs, all of which required his presence.

“As yet undetermined,” he said, not troubling to make a guess. “You are to remain here in the meantime. Follow procedure, and don't attempt to contact me again.”

“My Lord?”

The captain sounded concerned, and above all else: stupid. Lord Vader thought the reason behind the order should be obvious.

“The insurgents may be listening, and I have no intention of making this easy. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Comm silence, then.”

The captain’s uncomfortable swallow was like a glitch in the static. The further down the turbolift traveled, the thicker it got. 

“Of course,” the captain said, but the words were hardly intelligible. “May the day be yours, Lord Vader.”

His helmet comm cut out and he made the rest of the descent in silence. When the lift doors parted on the hangar, it was a swell of activity. Troopers were scurrying to their carriers, a few of them fussing with their wrist comms. Some were already in flight positions, and all of the shuttles were powered up and warming. The collective rumble of engines shook the floor beneath his feet, trilling up through his shin guards and boots. He felt an old thrill at it. There was an unnatural power that hung around ships, and even as a child he’d been drawn to it.

Lieutenant Crest was on standby to one side of his boarding ramp. He looked up from a datapad occasionally as his men boarded, ticking them off a list and taking stock of supplies. His helmet was off, face slicked with sweat. When he saw Lord Vader approaching, he stashed his tech and offered a salute.

“Are we primed, Lieutenant?”

“And ready to go.” He finished off his salute then frowned down at his wrist comm. "We are having some technical issues, though. Our comms have gone all static. More than ten meters apart and audibility drops to zero."

"No matter," he dismissed. "The issue stems from the bridge. Once we’re in range of local transmitters, it should resolve."

Crest nodded, accepting that. "Prepared to debark, then. I can lead formation, unless you'd like to assign someone else."

He didn't. Lieutenant Crest was an adequate squad leader. 

"You will suffice. Give the order before the other pilots are too dispersed."

As the lieutenant struggled to get the message through his wrist comm, Vader boarded the shuttle for himself. Foregoing the crew hold, which would be a mess of bodies and energies, he took the nook just behind the co- and pilot's chairs. It wasn't large, and his shoulders were too broad for it. He crossed his arms over his chest to narrow himself, though it did little good. His prosthetics and suit made a giant of him. If his agitated breathing didn't, the way he loomed would've dominated the room. 

The co-pilot, already strapped in, saluted when he was settled. Her voice barked through her helmet, and Vader recognized it immediately. Corporal Tytch, like the rest of the Stormtroopers, sported unpainted armor. There were no division colors, kill marks, or squad motifs. Her helmet was unremarkable, and he'd only seen the face beneath it a handful of times. He knew her voice, though. She often flew at Lieutenant Crest's right.

He nodded to her and checked his positioning, ensuring that where he stood would provide the best vantage once Crest was seated. Vader wanted clear sight of the instruments, data readouts, and forward viewport to supplement whatever he gleaned through the Force. 

Once satisfied, he planted his boots and waited for his pilot to board. It didn’t take long. Within minutes, Crest was with him in the small command cabin. The lieutenant had to twist around him to slink into his chair. He did so gracefully, issuing start-up commands to Tytch all the way.

“We won’t be opening a channel until we’re in the orbital defense station’s range,” he told the corporal as he flipped the switches that’d allow him to break idle. “The interference is a bridge issue. Once we’re through atmo it won’t be a problem, but until then the others know to stay on our wing.” He palmed the controls and flared the port side thruster, signalling to the others at his stern. “Ducks in a row, like a convoy. Nothing fancy.”

“Acknowledged.” Tytch palmed her controls. “Ready when you are, sir.”

“Lord Vader, are you braced?”

He was. He relied, in these moments, on the Force to keep him balanced. It never failed. If he gave himself over and fell fully into it, not even the sharpest turbulence could throw him.

“Get us out of this hangar, Lieutenant. All haste. We have work to do.”

* * *

Mygeeto had been contested since the days of the Clone War when, like so much of the Outer Rim, it was swept into the arms of the Confederacy. The Republic had fought long and bitterly over it.

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure why Palpatine had expected that to change.

It was true, of course, that the war had long since ended. Both the Confederacy and Republic were reduced to rubble, and atop their graves now towered the Galactic Empire. The spirit of conflict still bubbled, though. Palpatine couldn’t crush everything. Not all at once, anyway. The galaxy was a wide, churning sea. There were too many sinkholes for dissidents to hide in and regroup. That fact was keeping resistance alive, if at times only barely.

That was better than nothing. Obi-Wan would rather limp onward than lay down his arms, which was what he and the others were doing currently: limping towards-- well, he wasn’t quite sure what. 

Lurmen liberation was the most immediate answer. They’d been slaves on their own world for far too long. He and a small faction of the Alliance had agreed to help them fight for sovereignty, though that was where things began to go fuzzy. 

Mygeeto was home to a nascent resistance already, which had been chipping away at Imperial bases for years. One of their goals beyond liberation was the total expulsion of Palpatine’s forces, which Obi-Wan knew would be nearly impossible even with outside help. The Empire had resources neither the Alliance or native Lurmen could hope to amass in a hundred years. Beyond that, once in place, their system of local government was difficult to uproot. Whatever else it was, the Empire was notoriously persistent.

That was true of the outposts it established on any planet, but most especially on ones where it was mining for resources. Palpatine was a greedy lord who didn’t care about the destruction he caused. He would see entire planets implode if it meant he could drill to their cores. Mygeeto, unfortunately, was a source of kyber, and while it wasn’t widespread knowledge that’s what was being mined, Bail Organa’s sources had it on good authority. 

Knowing what he did of Palpatine, Obi-Wan didn’t find it hard to believe.

He had no idea what the Empire wanted with the material, but he knew enough to guess it wouldn’t be good. Even if the plan wasn’t openly destructive, and Obi-Wan couldn’t imagine that it wasn’t, how the Empire was going about it was. Native Lurmen had been treated horrendously for years, and continuous mining was taking a toll on the environment. The planet and its people were being desecrated, and if he could do anything to stop it, he would.

That meant, first of all, getting there and making planetfall. In theory, that should’ve been the easiest part. He had the coordinates, a ship, as well as the comm frequencies of several others on the mission with him, most of whom had already reached Mygeeto themselves. They were staggering their arrival in the hopes of avoiding drawing attention to the cave system they were hiding out in. Obi-Wan was meant to bring up the rear, which was generally ideal. By that stage, every kink in the plan should’ve been worked out.

It wasn’t, though that wasn’t anyone in particular’s fault. The local Moff had taken to scrambling his patrols, meaning that the times the Alliance members originally planned to enter atmo and move at were no longer safe. 

More than once, members of their team had nearly been arrested. The signatures on their ships were either falsified or reused, and while the masking in place worked well enough for the briefest scan, it fell apart on a second pass. Pilots who’d been clocked while breaking atmo had to alter their courses and lead those tailing them on a chase. It took hours to lose them sometimes, and even then, the break wasn’t long. They had barely enough time to reach the hideout, and afterward no one could move for days.

On top of that, the Emperor was apparently growing tired of the delays that attacks from natives caused. Missives had been intercepted zipping to and from Coruscant, all hinting that reinforcements were on the way. The timeline was unclear, but Obi-Wan and the rest of the group’s leadership doubted it would take very long. Palpatine wasn’t as tolerant of local squabbles as he’d been as Chancellor; if his advisor’s and the Moff were discussing it, it was likely imminent.

The tightening of their timeline and increased Imperial patrols, not to mention the hostile nature of Mygeeto’s weather, which in the last few weeks alone had churned up blizzards so fierce they were blinding, put the Alliance at a disadvantage. Even getting to the rendezvous to coordinate the next attack would be difficult. 

If Obi-Wan made it through atmo without being shot, he’d consider himself lucky.

Luck was what he was praying for as he made the drop out of hyperspace and shifted to chug along at sublight. He entered the sector at a set of coordinates some two hours out from the target planet, a distance which his friends had determined was safe. As promised, he saw no other ships in the area. The air was dead and all the space around him was quiet. It was better than he’d hoped, and relief had him sighing heavily and leaning back in his seat.

He took a few minutes to simply enjoy the calm. The flight from Tatooine to Mygeeto had been long. He’d had a few layovers, the nicest of which had been on Alderaan, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d been on the move a month. He was exhausted, already running out of clean clothes and decent rations, and was so sick of hyperspace that he was actually looking forward to planetfall. He’d never liked Mygeeto much. It was far too cold, craggy, and bleak. Compared to hyperspace, however, all of that was starting to sound sweet.

Frowning, and wondering how he’d gotten to a place where trudging through thigh-deep snow sounded like a _blessing_ , Obi-Wan unfastened his safety straps and twisted in his seat. He worked the stiffness out of his back, tugged his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, then reached across the instrumentation to fuss with a few controls. He adjusted the speed, engaged autopilot, set a proximity alert for Mygeeto’s moon, then excused himself from the cockpit. 

He was tired of being in it, not that there were many other places to be. The vessel Bail had loaned him was a hat box. Obi-Wan didn’t mind the fact. It was fast and easy to control. On extended flights, however, it had the tendency to begin feeling cramped.

This flight was no exception. Between himself and his gear, there wasn’t much space left to move around. The cockpit was a drop-down attachment off a single stretch of cabin, which fed directly into the boarding when it was open. The small hall was complicated by the jut of his bunk, kitchenette, and sonic stall. It reminded him of the one-room apartments in Coruscant’s seediest sublevels, though thankfully he was able to keep it more clean.

Taking a seat on the end of his bed, he fished through the covers for his commlink. When he found it, he began flipping through channels and sending out pings, hoping that someone on the ground had theirs at hand. It took several minutes, but eventually he got an answer. A connection went live, and through it came the voice of Tilly Gudera.

“You’re late,” the woman said, voice nearly swallowed by a scream of wind. It echoed, and Obi-Wan imagined her in the mouth of the cave she and the others were hiding in, bundled against the storm. “Hope it’s not because the Imps chased you into the gorge.”

“Fortunately not. I had to make an unscheduled stop-- engine trouble. The repairs cost me almost half a day.”

“Well,” she sighed, “could’ve been worse, I suppose.”

That was true. Many of their operatives were flying ships that should’ve been melted down a decade ago. Bail and his friends were wealthy, but not enough to supply everyone with the class of ship they needed. Obi-Wan was lucky that he and the senator were close; if they weren’t, he’d still be flying a rickety old bucket. That he wasn’t didn’t mean he never ran into trouble, though. Every ship had problems, and Obi-Wan had never been good at fixing them.

“How badly does that affect the timeline?” 

The wind picked up, temporarily whiting the line out. For several seconds, all he could hear was a shrill, grating whistle. When it died down, Tilly was halfway through a cuss.

“Karkin’ storm,” she huffed. “Fifth one this month. Can you believe it? This is probably the worst winter I've seen. You think it’d make the Imps give up. I’ve seen the lining of those armor shells. They aren’t exactly insulated. How do you think they keep from freezing?”

The simple answer was they likely didn’t spend much time outside. But, that was neither here nor there. 

“The timeline,” he repeated.

“Oh. Right.” She coughed, and the sound was glassy and thin. Obi-Wan hoped she wasn’t getting ill. “Not at all yet, but you’re cutting it close. We’re set to move out in five hours. We could delay one or two in a crisis, but we’d rather not.”

“That won't be necessary. I’m in the sector, and I’ll be through atmo in--”

“What?” she interrupted. “In the-- you mean you aren’t in local airspace yet?”

She sounded alarmed, which Obi-Wan thought was uncalled for. He was running behind, but she had said herself he wasn’t late. Five hours was plenty of time to make his descent.

“I will be.”

“Not if you don’t start microjumping, you won’t.” He cocked his head, but before he could ask, she carried on. “Listen, we had to-- ah, _sithspit_.” Obi-Wan heard a thick crunch of ice. She must’ve dug in her heel. “I told Miriene to update you. It must not have gotten through.”

“What didn’t?”

“The message.” The thump of her boots filled the background and the wind receded, the sound of the shrieking storm giving way. She must've been retreating into the cave. “The Moff is getting wise. He’s started tightening comm control. It’s one of the reasons-- blast, she should’ve followed up.”

Her pace quickened. Obi-Wan could hear her trampling through the first tunnel. The cold air stunted her breathing. It sounded like it hurt. The uncomfortable noise paired with the fact that she hadn’t told him what was wrong made his nape prickle.

“Commander, if you could tell me what’s going on?”

“What’s going on,” she said, “is that in a standard hour, two of our teams are doing a prelim run. One is a bomber squad, and with any luck they’ll destroy the comm and HoloNet stations. The other is hacking into orbital defense.”

“What?” He blinked, caught off guard. When had that entered the plan? It wasn’t part of it even a week ago. “What for?”

“To stop reinforcements. We don’t want any requests for it to go flying once the real fighting starts.” She drew a wheezing breath. “We also don’t want whoever’s already coming to land, so friendly fire protections are getting turned off. Once the station is hacked, Imperial codes won't cut it. Stealth won’t either. Everything is switching to auto. It’s target on sight, no exceptions. Anything entering atmo after it goes live is getting shot down.”

 _Blast_ , he thought, hopping up from his bed. So much for the nap he’d been counting on. He tightened his fist around his commlink and hurried back to the cockpit, dropping into it with a thud.

“How many jumps?” he asked, tapping his commlink against the sync pad of his instrument panel to transfer his location. “From where I am now. You’re far better at guessing that than I am.”

She didn’t answer immediately, presumably because she was checking his location and running the numbers in her head. Tilly had spent most of the last decade working in and around Mygeeto. No one else in the Alliance could get around the sector better.

“If you’re feeling lucky, you can try making it in two. Three would be safer, given how close you are. Plug it in wrong and you’ll hit orbit straight out of the jump and go spinning. You can place yourself just outside it with some creative toggling, though.” She drew a breath so jagged that it made Obi-Wan’s lungs feel punctured. “You’ll have to do that part yourself. I’m not a grid map. Think you can?”

“Less likely things have worked out, certainly."

"I'm serious, Kenobi. Do it in three if you have to. I might be able to buy you a little more time. If I get in touch with her quickly enough--"

"No," he interrupted, the word coming sternly. "Don't jeopardize the mission for my sake."

Timing was everything now. He knew that as well as anyone. With how erratic the Imperial station's schedules had been, figuring out a pattern and planning around it took real work. Delaying at all could mean pushing the mission back by days. If that happened, the insurrection would never get off the ground. Reinforcements would be in atmo before they got started.

"Obi-Wan," she began, and he could hear that she wanted to argue.

"Eyes on the horizon, commander, and proceed as planned." He softened his tone, hoping to sound more confident than he felt. "Keep your comm on. I'll send word as soon as I'm through."

She didn't respond immediately, and in the stretch of silence he could feel her puzzling out how to change his mind. 

After a moment she gave up, confirmed the order, then cut their line, giving him the quiet he needed to focus on plotting the jumps.

* * *

Something was wrong. Lord Vader could sense it, though he wasn’t sure _what_ yet. The fact blipped at the edge of his awareness, an indistinct warning. The feeling increased in sharpness the further out from the _Executor_ they flew. The blackness of space, usually a calm void, coiled strangely around them.

He tried reaching out through the Force and following the sinewy threads of whatever was looming back to the source. He couldn’t quite manage it. They were too tangled, or perhaps too nebulous. It made him-- not uneasy, but it honed his focus.

“Have we transferred onto local communications?” he asked, not caring which of the pilots answered.

“No, sir,” Tytch replied, after checking both the channels on her wrist and terminal. “We’re still feeding static, but everything else is going as planned. All shuttles maintaining formation, and no hostiles on the scans. Conditions are optimal, and with a little more distance the comms should be fine.”

No, he thought. Distance wasn’t the issue. They were almost close enough to breach Mygeeto’s atmosphere. They should’ve been free of the mess on the bridge long before now. If nothing else, the defense station’s channel should’ve been strong enough to host them. Sustained daily traffic, civilian and Imperial both, would’ve been more of a strain on the line. There was no reason for them not to have already synced with it. 

“Open a secondary channel and hail orbital defense.”

Tytch did as she was told, though she didn’t think it would work. That much read clear in the stiff pinch of her shoulders. She followed the order, however, and as a reward was privately proven right.

“Dead air, sir,” she said, as though Vader somehow couldn’t hear the static crackling like a fire through the line.

He felt another twinge: chilly, certain, and looming. _Something_ had happened, or was going to, but what?

“Increase speed,” he ordered, not wanting to linger. Perhaps the disturbance he felt was on the ground. If that was the case, the station’s signals could’ve been getting jammed from further down.

Could the Lurmen have gotten so lucky? He didn’t believe so. They lacked coordination. None of their previous attempts at sabotage had involved that class of maneuver. If that _was_ what had happened, it would’ve been their new allies’ idea. He felt a growl work through his chest. Already they were a greater inconvenience.

Together, Tytch and Crest kicked them up a few hundred knots. On the screen, the dots indicating the other ships lagged. Without communications, it took them a moment to realize what was happening. When they did, they increased their own and reformed on either wing. The group cinched, creating a neat chevron that cut with a violence towards Mygeeto’s envelope. 

The closer they got to it and the station-- too dark, he thought; had its entire grid been taken down?-- the more pronounced the feeling became. Something was coming. Something. _Something._

The nagging insight was swallowed by the scream of a target lock warning.

* * *

Obi-Wan shouldn’t have tried it. He knew that instinctively. He’d had to do three jumps after all and lost too much time. When the planet was finally in sight, all crystalline pink and white, the way the Force swam in dread around it was a warning sign. 

Everything in his gut told him that he’d missed his window. Even if it hadn’t, he would’ve known by the darkness of the station. It was black when he dropped into view, and through its yawning windows he couldn’t see anything. Everything, even adjacent satellites, had gone down.

He should’ve known by that, or if not, then by the way the station shuddered eerily back to life minutes later. Red emergency lights went up, bare minimum power making the round of it look like an enormous, bloodshot eye. It winked, failing whenever the person attempting the hack met a wall. They won out eventually though, and when they did, the strange light sharpened. The station proper stayed on low power, diverting maximum force to targeting and cannons.

He knew what would happen, but accelerated anyway.

If he was lucky, nimble, and quick, he thought he still had a chance of landing. If nothing else, he had the advantage of knowing what he was flying into. Putting all power forward, he jerked the yoke to make the ship sway starboard to port, zigzagging as much as he could while maintaining speed. It didn’t keep his target lock warning from shrieking when he got in range, but it prevented the guns from firing immediately. He arced toward the surface, weaving along, pulse thumping so hard he felt it in his tongue, and tried to ignore how the autolock caught up to him faster at the end of each swerve.

It was a sophisticated system, and he should’ve known better, perhaps, than to hope that he could outrun it. He had to try, though. Tilly needed him, as did the rest. They’d been planning this for too long for him to abandon them.

The first hit clipped one wing; the second, his starboard side. The ship rocked, barrel rolling from the force. He managed to jerk it back upright despite his hands sweating around the controls. He lost the lead, though; the delay allowed the system to fully lock. The only warning he got was a few seconds of blaring noise before his ship was blasted in the rear and sent spinning towards the surface.

The ship caught and dragged, spinning dizzily, and he was so nauseous and desperate to right it that he didn’t notice the cluster of others far off to port, all catching fire just the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to snow hell, boys.
> 
> Also, full disclosure, I have no idea at all what legion Crest was originally part of. For the purposes of this, however, my boy was always 501st. If you know otherwise, please forgive me and consider this an AU :P


End file.
